


let us cling together

by theprophetsaid



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (semi) Explicit Sexual Content, A Day at the Races / News of the World Era, Fluff & Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Cheating (not between Brian & Freddie), M/M, References to Depression, Secret Relationship, a sprinkle of kink: slight exhibitionism - bondage - power play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28221411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprophetsaid/pseuds/theprophetsaid
Summary: “God.” For some reason Brian can’t quite explain, this touch makes his heart roar, raw and primal. His ribcage rattles with it. Briefly, he wonders if this is the kind of power that the Greeks felt when the skies thundered and they thought of Zeus. “I…”“What is it, Bri?” The nickname sounds different falling off Freddie’s lips now, changed from being uttered at the brink of an orgasm.I don’t wanna get addicted if this is the only time, is the first response that comes to Brian's mind.
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	let us cling together

**Author's Note:**

> i confess that this is just everything i love packed into one thing; it's pure self-indulgence on my part, but i hope you like it. if you do, please let me know bc i might have enough ideas in me to write a second chapter to this. the world needs more maycury fic and that's that on that.

1977

The rain is coming down hard, just as they are, pounding shamelessly and leaving bodies slick. Slowly, they are becoming… turning into hot breath in the near-darkness. Brian moves his hand off Freddie’s mouth, decides to swallow his last, broken moan with a kiss that tastes of champagne and cigarettes, before he grabs his bound wrists, lifting him effortlessly into his lap.

He lets his teeth graze the edge of Freddie’s jaw and feels the tremor that runs through his body. Then his lips travel to the shell of his ear, sucking lightly, which earns a low whine, but it’s not a real protest. Brian smiles against his throat, feeling his pulse race.

Struck impatient, it seems, Freddie moves his hands enough to make the leather strap rub against Brian’s back. “Please, darling. I need to touch you.” His voice is quivering slightly, spoiling the confidence that he’s trying to push forward.

Taking pity on him, Brian pulls back a little, allowing room for Freddie’s hands between them. His breath trembles as he unbuckles and unwraps the belt — _his belt_ — that’s tied around Freddie’s delicate skin. Without a doubt, there will be marks blooming on it tomorrow, red or violet against the ivory. Still holding onto his wrists, Brian lifts Freddie’s right palm to his mouth, kisses it, then lets it go free.

The fraction of a second passes before Freddie’s captured Brian’s lips in a searing, hungry kiss and buried his hands in the curls of his hair.

“ _God._ ” For some reason Brian can’t quite explain, this touch makes his heart roar, raw and primal. His ribcage rattles with it. Briefly, he wonders if this is the kind of power that the Greeks felt when the skies thundered and they thought of Zeus. “I…”

“What is it, Bri?” The nickname sounds different falling off Freddie’s lips now, changed from being uttered at the brink of an orgasm.

 _I don’t wanna get addicted if this is the only time,_ is the first response that crosses Brian’s mind, but it sounds too desperate. He doesn’t want to come off as clingy, not when there’s so much at stake. In the quiet of this room, he can make out the boom of the afterparty on the floor below, the voices of guests blending into distortion.

Freddie must hear it, too. “Should we go back down there and steal a couple of vodka and tonics?”

At the suggestion, Brian snorts. “They’ll smell the sex on us immediately, I think.” Still, the desire for indulgence is hard to resist: He craves the sharp taste of alcohol, even more sex, perhaps a rare drag of Freddie’s cigarette; at the same time, he wants to lie down and fall asleep like this, glowing from self-satisfaction.

“I reckon most of them will be too drunk to notice,” Freddie replies, and he may have a point.

It’s possible that they are far more sober than any of their guests are by now. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, Brian calculates that they’ve been up here for more than two hours but, if anyone has noticed their absence, they probably haven’t given it much thought.

Smiling coyly, Freddie trails a fingertip along the bridge of Brian’s nose. “Come on, I’ll help you get dressed.”

Brian sighs, suppressing a smile of his own. “Alright. Fuck it.”

“Yes!” Freddie exclaims, bringing his hands together in s delighted clap just as he does when the band nails the tune to one of his songs. “Now, _this—_ this will be fun.”

“More fun than the sex?” Grabbing his white shirt off the floor, Brian tries not to be offended, but it must shine through his tone despite his efforts because Freddie whacks his shoulder with a pillow, which serves as a wordless reminder that he shouldn’t be so fucking ridiculous.

Afterward, he slides off the bed and fastens all but the two last buttons on Brian’s shirt to make up for the comment anyway. It also allows him to steal a chaste kiss at the end.

Brian doesn’t mind.

Feeling a bit lightheaded, he goes to pick up his pants by the door. Once he’s pulled them back on, Freddie brings his belt to him, and Brian _knows_ he’ll never be able to look at it the same way again. Hell, he might never be able to look at another hotel room without thinking of this experience, which is bound to cause him trouble.

“Should we go down separately?”

Freddie smirks. “If you insist. I’ll follow you.”

While Brian is riding the lift, he becomes aware of the dull strain in his thighs, and the past few hours return to him in hot flashes. Freddie’s moans keep ringing through his mind, so he quickly realises what a _terrible_ idea this is; the problem is that it sinks in at the exact moment he opens the door to the luxury hotel suite where the party is burning a hole in the night, roaring louder than the violent rain.

The place is bursting at the seams with guests: Some are only half-dressed, some speak in foreign tongues, and most of them are dressed in flamboyant glitter or animal print. It’s exactly the kind of party that the press is dying to twist into a scandal because _no one is allowed to have fun._

Pushing his way through the masses, Brian feels self-conscious. Every time he brushes arms with someone, he wonders if they _know._ It’s paranoid, of course, but…

Someone familiar crashes into him, grabs his shirt collar in desperation. “Brian—“ Roger gasps. “There you are! For fuck’s sake, I’m about to commit a murder.”

“Oh dear,” Brian deadpans flawlessly; for some reason, the drummer has that effect on him. “Who set you off?”

“That wanker, _Prenter._ He can’t find Freddie so he’s flickering about the place like a fucking fly, pestering everybody,” Roger says, pressing a hand to his ear as if he’s trying to block out the buzzing of Freddie’s personal manager. “Have you seen Fred, by any chance?”

_I was inside him twenty minutes ago, actually._

A smirk is pulling on Brian’s lips. To hide it, he grabs a shot off the nearest tray — held by a half-naked woman on roller-skates — and knocks it back. Straight vodka; the sharpness of it makes him wince, which helps him lie through his teeth, “No, I haven’t.”

All grace, Freddie chooses to arrive at that moment. “Heard you were talking about me, darlings.” In his hands, he’s holding two vodka tonics, one of which he thrusts into Brian’s hand. “I was at the minibar, held back by a dreadful queue, but I’m yours now.”

Brian suppresses a smile as Roger stares. “And you didn’t even think to bring _me_ anything? Why is Curly getting special treatment?”

 _I made him come. Try that._

Having conversations in his head has never before been this scandalous.

When Brian meets Freddie’s eye for a second, he wonders if he can read his thoughts. The secrecy of it is exhilarating; the strong drink tastes of their escapade and Freddie sips away on it as he replies, casually, “There wasn’t any whiskey left. If I served you anything else at this hour, you’d kick my arse.”

“Damn right… Bet Paul stole the good bottle.”

Now Roger's just being petty, but it’s pettiness that Brian can understand. Last week, Prenter tried to interfere with the sound of Roger’s drums by presenting him with a roll of tape to put on them. If John hadn’t excellently defused the situation by hauling the tape into the bin, Roger might’ve knocked Paul flat, and Brian _might_ have enjoyed seeing that.

Whenever Prenter isn’t trying to sabotage the Queen sound that they’ve worked for years to create, he’s behind Freddie’s shoulder, whispering nonsense in his ear. It makes Brian’s blood boil.

Even though Freddie has always had a mind of his own, he’s far too good-natured to consider that some people could be interested in taking advantage of him. At this point, with their record sales sky-rocketing and crowds all over the world stomping in unison to their beats, everyone wants a piece of Freddie Mercury.

_… Brian wants more than that._

“I might have to go and find him. He must be looking for me,” Freddie says, swallowing the last of his drink.

Brian’s fingers tighten around his own glass and, before he’s thought it through, he’s grabbing Freddie’s arm. “You don’t have to babysit him, Fred. Have some fun.”

“I already did, thank you very much.” At first, the response sounds classically flippant, but then he winks, a less than subtle reminder of what this _fun_ was. With that, he strides away despite the slight tightness in his step, and Brian’s mouth is suddenly dry as a desert.

“What the hell was that about?” Roger asks.

Brian knocks back the rest of his vodka tonic. “Guess he got laid.”

_And that was all it was to him._

The alcohol — or maybe it’s something else — leaves a bitter taste in his mouth; he spends the next thirty minutes trying to water it down, but that only makes him dreadfully sober. Being in such a state renders him unable to enjoy the conversation that Roger and John are having, slurring their words. Because of this, he finds himself staring at the ticking clock on the wall like a madman instead. Just before the hands strike 3:30, he rises to his feet to go back to his suite, but then the hotel room landline is brought to him on a silver platter. _Literally._

This life they’re living now, it’s surreal…

“Hello?” Brian picks up the receiver, earning the attention of his drunk bandmates.

 _“Keep your face looking nice and blank, darling,”_ Freddie says, god-damn nearly making Brian jump in surprise. Recovering fast, he nods in response to a question that wasn’t asked, hoping it appears natural incase Roger and John are still feeling curious. _“I was just wondering if you’re gonna keep me waiting all night.”_

Brian’s breathless, his pulse throbbing with excitement and fear all at once. Masking the emotions as well as he can, he mutters, “Of course not,” and, to his sheer relief, it comes out sounding unaffected despite the renewed hunger that’s rising in his chest. He realises that he needs a good cover, so he adds, “I’ll tell them to pipe down. I hear you, don’t worry.”

The pent-up excitement in his body makes him smack the receiver back on. “That was our second noise complaint of the evening, lads,” he lies to Roger and John. “Better pull the plug soon.”

The butler blinks at Brian in surprise, being the only person in the room who knows that Brian was speaking to _Freddie._ On his way to the door, Brian sends the man the subtlest, sharp look that he can manage: _This is between you and me._

His feet carry him to Freddie’s room. Standing in front of the door, he messes with his hair, contemplating whether he should knock. After a second, he decides that it’s probably the silliest thing that he could do, even though the nervousness prickling beneath his skin makes him want to retreat back to formalities. Soberness has defused the spark that lights his bravery.

Regardless, Brian takes a deep breath and enters the suite.

Right away, he’s struck by the sight of Freddie, sitting shirtless against the headboard of the bed, puffing on a cigarette. Exhaling the smoke, he doesn’t waste his breath, “Undo a couple of buttons and join me, dear.” He’s illuminated only by the silvery moonbeam that’s pouring through the curtains, making the drops of sweat on his chest glisten.

Transfixed, Brian stares for a moment before his hands start working. Earlier, Freddie had buttoned his shirt up way more than Brian would’ve done himself, and it’s honestly surprising that they weren’t busted based on that alone.

With half of his chest exposed beneath the shirt, Brian crawls up the mattress to sit beside Freddie. Thecigarette smoke scratches his nose, but for once he doesn’t mind it; he minds the silence between them more, so he breaks it, “You’re a great pretender, you know. I really thought you were going to look for Paul.”

“I almost did, but then I remembered your cock.“

Brian chokes on nothing. Still, the fluster only lasts a moment because he senses the heat of Freddie’s gaze and is driven to meet it; the intensity of the eye contact makes Brian’s skin burn, but he doesn’t want to lose himself in the lust again. They need to talk, even if Freddie thinks that’s boring, and yet it so difficult; he can’t quite compel his lips to form words when all they want to do is kiss. Desperate for a distraction, Brian pulls the cigarette from Freddie’s lips. “Do you mind?” he asks softly yet doesn’t wait for a response before he steals a drag.

In Brian’s case, smoking has never been a habit but an _impulse,_ simple as a guitar strum, though not quite as pleasant. It’s definitely not the same as a kiss, but at least it keeps his mouth occupied.

Freddie stares at the cloud that Brian exhales, struck dumb until the cigarette is passed back to him.

In silence, they share the next few puffs, their shoulders brushing. The scent of their sweat still hangs in the air, having survived the chain-smoking, and the sheets beneath them are rumpled. It’s only fitting that Freddie leans in to ask, “Is this the gayest thing you’ve ever done, darling?”

“Have you been diagnosed with short-term memory loss since I last saw you?” Brian deadpans, surprising himself with the light-heartedness of his tone.

At the teasing, Freddie rolls his eyes fondly. “No, I mean…” he trails off, prompting Brian to look at him. When he speaks up again, his voice is carrying vulnerability, “Was I your first man?”

Brian doesn’t want to lie to him. “No, not…you weren’t,” Freddie’s eyebrows shoot up, revealing that he’s intrigued, but Brian isn’t in the mood to tell stories, so he just chooses to say, “but you’re the only man I’ve ever been _alone_ with, that I’ve had to myself,” and the way Freddie’s lips part makes it clear that no further details are needed.

Of course, Freddie doesn’t remain baffled for long. “I thought you seemed experienced.”

That comment makes Brian laugh with ease. “Well, thanks.”

Like it’s the simplest thing in the world, they’ve slipped back into friendliness, but the desire for _more_ is still burning in Brian’s body, and there’s no doubt in his mind that Freddie feels the same way. He knows, too, that they can’t keep playing the game without any rules; it will only lead to misunderstandings about who’s winning or losing at any given time.

While the mood is light, Brian decides to put it all out on the table. “Listen, if you want me again, it can’t be like this.”

Freddie huffs. “Excuse me, darling, but as I recall you were the one who initiated it. And now you’re gonna tell me that we didn’t do it right?”

When it’s put it like that, it does sound quite hypocritical. “I’m not suggesting that we ban hotel room sex or crucify each other for a bit of public grinding, if it’s done with discretion,” Brian says, smirking. “I’m suggesting that we try not to hurt each other.”

These words soften Freddie’s expression, but as soon as Brian suggests that they lay down a few ground rules, he grimaces. “Rules? Jesus, we’re not in school anymore, Bri. Don’t ruin the fun we could have.”

Resisting the urge to sigh, Brian amends, “We can call it ‘terms’ instead, if you’re more comfortable with that.” To his relief, Freddie nods, satisfied now that the academic connotations have been removed, and lights another cigarette at the perfect time, as Brian goes on, “Alright then. My first term is that we don’t fuck other people.” 

Stunned, Freddie pulls the cigarette from his mouth, but he must realise that Brian isn’t kidding because he just mutters, “… explain,” in a tone that hints at a possible objection. 

_“_ It’s mostly for the band’s sake. If we’re exclusive, it’s less complicated emotionally and we’ll be able to focus on making music instead of wondering ‘ _God, is he screwing someone else?_ ”

A moment passes before Freddie admits, “That sounds wise.”

Brian knew that he would think so because, if there’s one thing that they can agree on without question it’s that music always comes first.

Twirling the cigarette between his fingers, Freddie asks, “What’s your next term?”

“I know I can’t stop you from doing it when you’re not with me, but I won’t touch you if you’re high. Not if you’re too drunk either. I need you to be able to give consent. That’s pretty reasonable, I’d say.”

“It is. I rather appreciate it, actually,” Freddie says, smiling, and Brian brushes his fingertips along his wrist, touching the spot where the belt was just an hour ago. “What’s next?”

“Nothing. That’s it. See? Not quite as tedious as you thought. Now, I want to hear yours.”

Freddie doesn’t even think for a moment. “I don’t have any.”

But, as Brian remarked earlier, Freddie is great at pretending. On stage, he dazzles everybody, holding them captive in the palm of his hand and, as he sings, he seems otherworldly; off stage, he is someone else: someone who wants to be told how _good_ he is, who whines and pouts until he is filled up.

Brian knows that he may very well be pretending right now, too. _But this is not meant to be a performance._

“Are you sure?” is what he asks at first, keeping his voice gentle. Then, a second later, he decides to be more direct, “It’s okay for you to want things from me, Fred, just—”

“Fine, but it’s silly,” Freddie interjects defensively. A moment later, he continues, “I hate sleeping alone.”

Though they have been few and far between, there have been moments where Brian has felt Freddie’s loneliness as if it were his own. The last time it happened, it was when he composed the solo for _Somebody to Love:_ He could hear Freddie crying as his guitar did, and he spun a melody out of the tears that he imagined, wishing that he could do more… so much more. Now, he can. He has the chance.

And he smiles at the thought, tracing idle patterns on Freddie’s wrist. “I’ll just have to sneak out in the morning then.”

* * *

Brian often dreams in sounds: The crack of a whip, a broken piano solo, a bell that won’t stop chiming in the distance. Sometimes, he wakes up with a full melody in his head, with his fingers itching to play, but this morning is different in every way: He _feels_ before he hears, a nose pressed to the back of his neck and curved lips that brush his cheek.

The duvet rustles, and then those same lips are on Brian’s chest, trailing down his stomach toward his thighs and flooding his mind with images of the previous night, which tear him out of the sleepy haze.

“Fred—“ The rest of the name morphs into a gasp when Freddie’s teeth graze his hip.

“What? You’re not a morning sex kind of person?”

Brian grunts at the assumption. “I’m not a _morning_ person,” he corrects, making Freddie grin.

The blowjob is the best that Brian’s had in years, perhaps _ever_ : It’s lazy and drawn-out, the kind that has him clutching at the sheets as stars burst behind his eyelids. Every slow suck, every flutter of Freddie’s tongue, it takes Brian out of his head, just like the screaming crowd does when he’s on stage, but it’s even more euphoric; his thoughts blur and the walls of the room dissolve until there is nothing left except this bed and the blinding heat that might swallow him whole.

It takes Brian forever to come down once he’s finally hit the peak. His skin flushed, with a hand clasped over his own mouth, he tries to catch his breath.

“Are you alright, darling?” Freddie asks, rubbing Brian’s knee gently.

His chest still heaving, Brian looks up. “Ask me again in an hour and I’ll tell ya.”

Brian spends the said hour freshening up in his own room, taking a long shower that doesn’t wipe the glow off his skin or drain the colour from his cheeks. It’s fine, he decides, _it makes me look alive._

With a spring in his step, he strides to the hotel restaurant where his three bandmates are already huddled around a corner table, tapping a French press and buttering croissants.

Diligently keeping his eyes off Freddie, Brian grabs one of the flakey pastries out of the basket and takes the empty seat beside John, who offers a hungover drawl of “Mornin’,” which is a great deal friendlier than the scowl on Roger’s face.

As an act of kindness (and pity), Brian refills the drummer’s cup after pouring some coffee for himself; it doesn’t go unnoticed. Roger’s eyes are a little bleary, though still piercing as they land on Brian. “You’re in a good mood.”

Brian huffs. “And is that illegal in the city of Ottawa?”

“For you it should be,” Roger snarks, but it’s just for the hell of it, as becomes evident when he smirks. “I can’t believe you got laid last night while I was almost driven to murder.”

At that comment, Brian can’t help but gape. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” Deaky says outright.

Feeling his cheeks heat up, Brian takes cover behind John’s unfolded newspaper, an American one that he probably grabbed in an airport. The headline pops out: **QUEEN BRINGS DOWN THE HOUSE.** Still, the photograph that the journalist has chosen for the article grabs his attention for longer: It’s of him and Freddie, looking like a unit in matching colours; Freddie in his harlequin jumpsuit and Brian in a white silk jacket. They’re perhaps leaning in a bit close to each other’s faces, yet it hardly suggests that they’d be moaning each other’s names a week later.

“Your hair is blocking my view, Brian,” Deaky murmurs. “I can read it to you if you’d like.”

“Ah, it’s alright.”

Snapping himself out of it, Brian takes the last sip of his coffee and ignores Roger’s peering as much as he can. When it comes to sex — well, _anything_ really — Roger is as nosy as an old lady. Most of the time, Brian humours him with some information, but that won’t happen now.

Roger, of course, picks up on Brian’s oyster vibe. “You’re not even gonna brag a little bit? Come on, you’ve been in desperate need of a rebound for months.”

_Rebound._

Like a bolt of lightning, Freddie’s eyes strike Brian. Feeling the quiet burn of his gaze, Brian has to fumble for the words, “It wasn’t like that,” and he’s a tad surprised by how honest they are because Roger _is_ right. Since his last relationship ended, just after they’d finished recording _A Day at the Races,_ Brian’s been punishing himself, quite unknowingly perhaps, by staying away from the only thing that’s ever screwed him up.

_Sex._

He was unfaithful, many times over, sometimes with multiple people at once, until it began eating away at him and he finally confessed everything to his girlfriend. Well, almost everything; he didn’t tell her about the men, just handed back his key to the apartment. Then he used his royalties from _Tie Your Mother Down_ to secure a lease on a Kensington flat.

“Oh, what was it like then?” Roger asks in a teasing tone, batting his eyelids like a schoolgirl.

Brian won’t give him much. Though Freddie has stopped staring, he’s still right there. “… Memorable.”

“Sex always is,” John remarks as if he’s stating a fact on a quiz show.

“Yeah, for you, I reckon. You usually get a kid out of it,” Roger jokes.

This makes John swat at his shoulder with the newspaper, punctuating each hit as he says, without heat, “It’s only. Happened twice. So far.”

Freddie and Brian’s laughs melt together. For a moment, it makes the room disappear, and Brian lets himself look into those enchanting dark eyes, doesn’t try to suppress the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth: It feels like an ode to the courage that brought them together last night. They’d laughed then, too, in betweenmessy kisses, knowing that they were creating a secret.

Twenty minutes later, when Deaky points out that they better start moving if they want to be in Montreal on time, he and Roger stand up first, letting Brian and Freddie fall behind on their way out.

While no one is looking, Freddie seizes the opportunity to lean in and whisper, “Are you alright?” bringingBrian back to their _moment_ earlier.

He smiles. “I feel wonderful.”

(In Montreal, the red marks on Freddie’s wrists are soaked by the spotlights.)

The rest of the tour passes in a blur of passion followed by pleasure; the high is never-ending, breathtaking beyond compare. After a few shows, Brian can sense the intensity of his own eyes, locked on Freddie in the limelight. He senses the pull between their bodies like never before. They hide away in hotel rooms at the end of each night, and — if the lack of comments from their bandmates is anything to go by — the post-sex radiance becomes less noticeable as they continue to fall into bed together, but Brian still feels it in his chest.

His heart is something wild these days.

He’s a man starved, a man possessed, and it freaks him out because he’s never had a healthy relationship with sex. He doesn’t want to treat it like a drug again, doesn’t want to treat _Freddie_ like that.

In Houston, he confesses this fear while they’re still basking in the afterglow. “I feel like I’m using you.”

Freddie stares at him, looking offended. “What the hell are you on about?”

Even though it’s hard to explain, Brian tries; tries to put into words how sheltered he was as a teenager, made to sit in his room with his homework while his friends partied two houses down the street. He didn’t realise that he felt trapped until he went to university and he didn’t know how to _talk._ All he could do was bloom in the corner as the people around him mingled. He wasn’t shy, no, he was in _shock._

 _“_ When I did discover sex and dating, the latter of which I’ve never been good at,” Brian says, making Freddie chuckle, “it was my first taste of freedom. I needed it like oxygen. I could just _be,_ you know, without having to worry about my future. I could exist in the moment.”

“And now you think you’ve become addicted to it?” Freddie guesses.

Brian nods slowly.

Then Freddie turns to him, and there’s a smile in his eyes. “My dear, listen. Most people are perverts. You’re not special. To me, you are, but…”

It’s an off-hand comment, and yet it makes Brian’s lips part.

Nonchalant, Freddie continues, “You’re very hard on yourself. That’s the only reason I worry about you. And, let it be known: I won’t complain about us having a lot of sex.”

Feeling a little sheepish, Brian messes with his hair and bumps his knee against Freddie’s. “So it’s fine?”

“Of course, darling. If you couldn’t contain yourself on stage, then we’d have a problem, but you’re way better at that than I am.”

_True._

Smiling, Freddie fiddles with his packet of cigarettes but doesn’t pull one out. In the last few days, Brian has wondered if he was imagining the change in Freddie’s smoking habits because it seemed like wishful thinking, but upon witnessing this… _it could be._ “You’re not quitting, are you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, dear,” Freddie replies, the smile still playing on his lips. Then, without warning, he turns to straddle Brian’s hips, placing his warm palms at the back of his neck. “I just wanted to do this more.”

“Hm,” is Brian’s answer as Freddie’s hands bury themselves in his hair. Though Brian is quite exhausted from the concert and its hot aftermath, he can spare a kiss. Maybe even two.

* * *

When their tour of North America and Europe comes to an end, Brian feels as if he might collapse: his bones have been softened by the performances, the parties, the heavy sex. After months of pure indulgence, his body starts to catch up. It’s not pretty.

The readjustment has always been hard for him, but this time it’s worse because his apartment is empty; he starts to loathe the echo of his own footsteps. Because of this, he stays in bed for three days.

No one calls, which gives him plenty of time to think. That’s not good. On the third day, his mind randomly drifts to his childhood cat, who passed away just before he went to university. Every day when he’d returned from school, she’d been there, expecting to be loved. His heart clenching in his ribcage, Brian feels terrible for not thinking of her since he dug the hole for her grave in his parents’ backyard.

The cry that he has afterward feels cathartic but it’s not quite enough, so he writes her a song and then quickly decides that a dominating guitar sound isn’t right for it.

The first time he actually sits down to play it is in early July once the recording for their next album begins. Because they’re too familiar with strings, his fingers are intimidated by the piano keys. In truth, he almost chickens out and asks Freddie to play the tune instead, but since he has left with Rob to make tea…Brian tries his best to do justice to his old friend.

 _All Dead, All Dead._ The song itself is as depressing as its title. Still, Brian is proud of it because it’s the most honest song he’s written in a while.

When he looks over his shoulder at Roger and John, they looked stunned, if not more than a bit concerned.

“Um, it’s a beautiful melody,” John compliments, his smile uneven.

Roger puts a hand in his own shirt. “The lyrics are… You alright, mate?”

Brian turns around to answer just as Freddie enters the room, carrying a single cup of tea. He places it on the piano in front of Brian, twittering, “Earl Grey,“ which distracts from the critique of the song.

His eyebrows raised, Roger puts his hands on his hips. “And you’ve done it _again,_ Fred. Where are our teas?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, darling. I gave Brian his tea first because he likes it thinner than you both do. Anyway, they’re coming right up.”

Trying to act nonchalant, Brian simply shrugs at his bandmates, then takes a casual sip of the tea that sears his tongue. _Fuck._

At least all of this appears to be forgotten as soon as Roger and John have their tea and biscuits, so they keep working on the song. After adding a delicate drum beat to the melody, they record the backing track. Though Brian wanted Freddie to handle the piano for this because perfection is _crucial,_ his bandmates insists that he should do it. And that’s it; the Queen democracy has spoken.

Brian’s confidence is still suffering from the depression that hit him this weekend, but the relief of returning to the studio has been immediate. Being blinded by glitz and glamour warps the everyday at home. The excessiveness of the touring life makes the mundane reality of coming home so incredibly lonely, so _colourless._ Studio time is a nice bridge between those two distinct spheres of the rock star life.

Brian gets to lose himself in his greatest passion: Making music.

Of course, they bicker like mad, but Brian can’t help but smile through it all because these are his people: Roger, with his sassy remarks; John with his clever yet rarely-voiced opinions and, of course, _Freddie._ Whenever their eyes meet, Brian’s heart leaps. That’s all he knows at this point.

 _All Dead, All Dead_ is a quick project. By the end of the third day, they have put most of it down. Self-satisfied, Brian twirls his keys as he walks to his car only to be struck by a hollow realisation: The last thing that he wants is to go back to his empty, dreadful flat.

He’s been standing still for a minute, staring at his car in contempt, when he hears a familiar voice shout, “Do you mind giving me a lift home, Bri? My driver’s taken the day off, it seems!” It’s too cheery to be even close to the truth.

Battling a smirk, Brian turns to face Freddie. “‘Course, but I expect a payment.”

Freddie just winks at that, then takes the passenger side.

Within five minutes of driving, Brian realises that a driver’s license would indeed be wasted on Freddie; he’s distracted by everything from a flock of birds to the trees, though his attention is mostly devoted to the sunset. It’s only just beginning but it’s still beautiful, the fluffy clouds washed in a lavender and peachy glow.

Brian wants to stare at Freddie, to memorise the awe on his face, but he has to keep his eyes on the road. One of the few things he misses while he’s on tour is driving. For some reason, it’s always calmed him, being on the open asphalt with a clear view of where he’s heading. There are less crossroads in the real world than there are in his mind, and he knows now that he’s going to Freddie’s apartment.

Finally, the long spring that they lived through on tour is coming to an end. The start of summer is taking them to new destinations.

When they step over the threshold in Freddie’s flat, they are welcomed by his cats: Tom and Jerry, ever the pair, paw into the hallway with their tails raised in greeting, but they don’t have much to say, not even at the rare sight of Brian. It should be underwhelming, perhaps, but Brian finds it comforting, smiles as he hangs up his jacket. He turns around to look at Freddie yet finds a tiny ball of fluff sitting in between them.

The kitten, black with some red patches, meows at them. Brian nearly melts on the spot.

“You got a new one?”

“Yeah, three days ago,” Freddie sighs, his voice marked by soft adoration. “Allow me to introduce you,” he gestures between them, “Miko, this is Brian. He’s very tall, isn’t he?”

Without hesitation, Brian bends down to seem less intimidating and reaches out to let the cat sniff his hand. He realises that it’s been a while since he craved someone else’s approval this much. The last time he did, it was probably from his father, but — to his relief — Miko is not as hard to win over: within seconds, the kitten is leaning in to have its ear scratched.

Brian exhales, a smile blooming on his face as the kitten waltzes away. “Guess that went well,” he says, looking up at Freddie who’s beaming at him.

Before Brian has even stood up completely, Freddie captures his lips in a kiss; it tastes vaguely of the coffee they sipped during their last hour in the studio. Freddie’s hands are clutching his shirt collar, keeping him close, and Brian deepens the kiss, though not too much because his back is starting to protest against the awkward angle.

As he straightens, Brian does so without breaking away. Instead, he backs Freddie up against the nearest wall and kisses him until they’re both left breathless. The lack of oxygen must mess with his mind because, at the next moment, he’s blurting, “I’ve missed this.”

 _It’s been what? Three weeks? Cool it, Brian,_ he tells himself.

Brushing a fingertip across Brian’s shoulder, Freddie smiles. “I’ve missed it, too.”

Then their mouths are colliding again, messily, and they laugh into it. They stumble into the bedroom, make it past the piles of clothes and sheet music scattered across the floor, and fall onto the mattress.

When he plays his guitar, Brian’s hands move without him telling them to: Instinctively, they dance from chord to chord in perfect harmony. He feels the same way every time he undresses Freddie; it’s something he doesn’t have to think about, a collection of movements that his body has internalised by now. Being with someone every night for months will do that.

Tonight, desperation dominates their rhythm, which is weird because it hasn’t been _that_ long: They claw at each other, leaving red scratches across their backs and shoulders; they pull at one another’s hair, and their kisses are of bruising force. Despite this burning passion, Brian’s hips still before he wants them to as he finishes too early; it kills the heat of the moment.

Biting back a frustrated groan, Brian lets himself fall back onto the mattress and drags a hand across his face.The usual post-orgasm bliss doesn’t conquer his body, and he knows why. In this moment, he has to be angry at himself; it’s the only way he'll keep from sobbing.

Frowning, Freddie stares at him. “What’s the matter? And don’t you dare tell me it’s nothing.”

“Well, it is.”

Sitting up, Freddie flicks his lighter, waits…

At first, Brian pretends that it doesn’t make his stomach twist, but then he realises: For as long as he can remember, he’s been averse to personal conflicts and he’s used that to excuse years of shitty behaviour, such as lying about his numerous affairs or cutting off the communication with his dad. His unwillingness to discuss his emotions has carved holes in his life, has only ever caused him pain and misery.

“You’re right. It’s just…” He swallows hard as Freddie’s eyes drift back to him. “I guess I’ve been quite miserable since the tour ended.” Despite his will to stay collected, his voice cracks and his heart quivers, putting tears in his eyes, so he has to squeeze them shut.

Still, Brian hears Freddie stub out the cigarette in the marble ashtray, then feels the soothing weight of his head upon his shoulder. “Why on Earth didn’t you tell me, dear?”

Brian swallows the tight lump in his throat and releases another truth, “I didn’t want to burden you.”

“But I love it when you talk to me.”

Somehow, Freddie always knows what to say. As abrasive as he can be when he wants to, he never loses his delicacy; the gentle fondness that shines through his voice seems to fill the space between them, and it makes Brian breathe easier.

Hours could pass like this; Brian wouldn’t care. When their fingers interlace, his heart feels lighter. There’s a relief in knowing that he doesn’t have to explain any of this. Somehow, he can tell that Freddie understands. So they just sit for a while, blooming in the silence; Brian can sense them grow together. 

“Would going out tonight help you?” Freddie whispers.

After considering it for a moment, Brian shakes his head. What he needs is not to return to the high of partying. _No…_ he needs to rediscover what it’s like to be at home, not somewhere but _with someone. “_ Let’s stay in. Have dinner.”

“Excellent! I can boil some pasta for—“

Brian’s arm shoots out, preventing him from moving further. “Absolutely _not._ It might’ve been a few years, but I haven’t forgotten about your cooking catastrophes, Fred. I’m well enough; I’ll handle this,” he says, dropping a quick kiss to Freddie’s cheek.

Still, they both dress and move to the kitchen where Freddie pours them glasses of Merlot and then feeds the cats. He tells Brian that little Miko has had to whack his older siblings with his paw to stop them from stealing his kitten kibble, and a smile grows on Brian’s lips; it dwindles a bit when he realises how empty Freddie’s fridge is.

Glancing at Freddie, he sighs, “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re in serious need of a housewife.” Flirtatiously, Freddie brushes his hand along Brian’s arm, causing him to conclude, “You’d like that, huh? Someone to buy your groceries and do your laundry?”

“Someone to come home to,” Freddie corrects, his dark eyes serious; their intensity is enchanting, and yet Brian has to shy away from them.

* * *

In the next few weeks, Brian and Freddie find themselves quite inexplicably drifting back to the same place ,just as they did when they were on tour. Sure, perhaps it could be explained as them falling back into the routine, but something’s changed. Freddie’s apartment is not a hotel room; it’s no hideaway where they can only moan and fall asleep.

Here, they can be. They can listen to Hendrix records as they make out on the sofa; they can brush their teeth like a married couple, sharing the sink, and play Scrabble until the break of dawn, if that’s what they want.

To Brian’s surprise, it’s uncomplicated. It makes sense. The one thing that _doesn’t_ make sense anymore is that he hasn’t left his mark on the place yet. So he brings The Red Special around a few times until he finds a perfect spot for it next to the bookcase that now holds fascinating literature on galaxies and interplanetary dust.

On another evening, something even more remarkable happens: Brian decides to gather the random scraps of paper he finds around the apartment. It’s no wonder that it takes Freddie forever to write his lyrics if he scatters them about the place and constantly loses sight of them. He tries not to peek at them out of respect, but his curiosity occasionally gets the better of him: Scribbled across a small paper bag, Brian finds the chorus to a song that he hears in the studio a couple of days later: _Get Down, Make Love._

As they listen to Freddie sing it, Roger nudges Brian. “You think he’s going through a dry spell?”

Brian has to bite back the urge to smirk. “Who knows? But I think this needs just a little guitar—”

“—oh, you mean a five-minute solo?” John buds in, but it’s quite good-natured. Still, Brian throws a ball of crumbled paper in his direction.

At this moment, Freddie removes his headphones and says, “Bri, I think I want you to come in from the top.”

_Bet you do._

Since reading the lyrics for the first time, Brian has had an idea for the guitar work but, of course, this is the first time he hears the words sung as Freddie had envisioned. They spend the rest of that afternoon tweaking the song, laying down the backing track of guitar, bass and drums; Freddie adds his playful piano bits, and the end result leaves Rob jokingly fanning himself in the control room. “Nice, sexy track you have there, lads.”

“Well, our job is done then,” Freddie twitters back.

And suddenly Brian can’t resist the urge to throw an arm around Freddie’s waist. Realising that it’s not quite platonic, he moves his arm up to the back instead, squeezing his shoulder. If their bandmates notice anything unusual about the touch, they don’t mention it.

The four of them go to the nearest pub for a pint afterward (it _is_ a Friday); it’s barely 6 PM, yet the place is packed because of the football game that’s being shown on the small boxy television on the bar counter. They’re in luck, it seems; one of the things that can be more interesting than the most popular rock group in England is a good ol’ football match.

They squeeze together at a table, but Brian is kind of delighted about it since his and Freddie’s knees are touching.

A perk of being famous is that you never have to wait long on the alcohol you order, so their lager is presented to them after a few, short minutes.

For at least a couple of hours the conversation is light, the product of a great day in the studio. Music is the safe topic; once it gets more personal, the lies start flowing from Freddie and Brian’s lips. Little ones, of course, but they’re still lies. Though it might be his guilty mind playing a trick on him, Brian senses himself shrink with each one. Then, halfway through their third beer, Roger asks a seemingly harmless question, “Tell me, Brian. Is your phone out of order?”

Frowning, Brian stares at him. “No.”

“Then why the hell aren’t you answering my calls? I’ve been trying to reach you to hear if you still have my good tambourine.”

While the truthful answer would be quite simple: _I haven’t been at the flat a lot lately,_ it could lead to a minor interrogation. Because of this, Brian decides to dodge the question entirely by asking one of his own, “Why would I keep your tambourine? I don’t need it.”

But Roger isn’t easily fooled. “I _found_ my tambourine. Turns out my dog thought it was a toy, but that doesn’t explain why you haven’t been answering my calls.”

Feigning nonchalance, Brian shrugs. “I’ve been out.”

“Ooh,” Deaky remarks, wiggling his eyebrows. “That implies more than one date. It has to be serious. Rog, we _must_ alert the press right now.”

At that comment, Brian looks between them. “Unbelievable, the pair of you.” If this didn’t have anything to do with Freddie, Roger and John’s interest might not have mattered to him.

Brian feels himself tense up, and — even though the guys let the subject go — he doesn’t relax. In his chest, two different sides of his heart are battling because there’s a part of him that’s so sick of hiding, a part of him that wants the whole world to know. His entire life, he’s held his tongue, bound his own hands, choked on his tears. _And f_ _or what_? He just feels damaged.

When he first kissed Freddie, pressed their bodies together, it was as if a screaming choir inside him finally fell silent. At the same time, he was coming alive. He’d been with plenty of men before, but it’d never awoken him like that. Had the world been a better place, it wouldn’t be considered shameful for him to shout it out, to proclaim it into a microphone, even.

_Oh, what a dream that is._

As though he can sense Brian’s discomfort, Freddie reaches out to touch his knee under the table. Somehow, Brian knows that it’s a permission to spill the truth if he wants to, and _Lord,_ does he want to. He’s just not ready. So, instead, he takes it as a permission to leave, making up a classical musician’s excuse, “I’ve got this tune running in my head. I need to put it down before I go mad.”

“You need me for vocals?” Freddie asks, taking the last sip of his pint.

Brian blinks, freezing for a moment. “Um, yes… yes, I might, actually.”

Pulling his jacket off the back of the chair, Freddie snaps his fingers. “Great. Let’s go.” Quickly, before he leaves, he leaves the money for the alcohol, most likely as a weak apology for their sudden exist. “See you guys on Monday.”

As soon as they’re alone outside, surrounded by the warm July wind, Brian can take a steadying breath. Still, the frustration that’s been building in his chest is hard to shake, so when they go sit on a bench close by, Brian asks something of Freddie that he thought he never would, “You’ve got a cigarette?”

“Sure,” Freddie replies immediately, opening his packet, “but is that really what you need?”

Huffing, Brian places a cigarette between his lips and leans in to let Freddie light it. His first drag is quick, and yet it burns his throat. Even when he exhales the smoke, he doesn’t feel a bit calmer. “I don’t know what I need.”

“That’s fine, darling. Can you at least tell me how you feel?” A hint of desperation breaks through Freddie’s voice; it softens Brian’s chest, makes him lean back to gaze at the stars, something that he has always found to be soothing.

“I can be myself with you, Fred,” he murmurs, swallowing back emotion. “I can breathe when I’m around you, but most of the time I… I struggle. I’m afraid that there is so much more to _me_ that I will never understand because I’m—I’ve buried it too deeply.”

Freddie, it appears, needs to soak all of the words up for a minute, then he looks at Brian with a serious expression on his face. “Are you ashamed of liking men?”

Brian pauses mid-drag to answer the direct question. “No.”

“Well, are you afraid of it then?”

This response takes a moment of thought for Brian to form. “Sometimes. But not when we’re alone. That’s my comfort zone, I suppose.”

At that last bit, Freddie smiles for a good five seconds without saying anything. In the end, Brian has to raise his eyebrows in question to make him say, “How about I take you out of it, dear?”

For the first time in his life, Brian worries about not being let into a club. His arm wraps tighter around Freddie’s waist when the guards survey them. _What if they call him out, believe that he’s a fraud?_ But after what passes as an eternity the men clear the entrance, allowing them to drift into a world that Brian has only ever dreamt of being brave enough to be a part of: In this smoke-filled room, they are heaps of sweaty bodies, dancing and grinding; men kissing men no matter where his gaze happens to land; men wearing skirts and lipstick. It’s enough to make Brian’s mind whirl — forget about the horrible dance beats that boom from the speakers, _this_ place wants him. And he wants this place.

Freddie takes Brian’s hand, leading him through the masses; this touch is enough to ground them before they make it to bar. Here, they order bright violet drinks that make Brian’s skin buzz, the sweet taste soaking his tongue. Afterward, they knock back three shots of vodka. While the alcohol cools his nerves, it brings heat to the rest of him…

… and when they dance, it conquers whatever was left of the fear.

“I just _love_ your hands, darling,” Freddie breathes as Brian presses his fingertips against his hips. “Most skilled hands I’ve ever fucking felt.”

Smug, Brian hums against his pulse point. Touching Freddie is as easy as playing his guitar; he knows exactly what to do to get him to make the sweetest sounds. Right now, a single stroke against his thigh pulls alow whine from his parted lips, and _the best part,_ “Bri—“

“You know what to say,” Brian replies huskily, confidence sparking in his chest. Even though it’s a little hard to tell, he thinks he sees Freddie’s cheeks flush under the florescent lights.

“ _Please._ ”

Though he would prefer it with less attitude attached, Brian decides to let it slide. Giving in, he palms Freddie through his tight jeans. The first time he did that, they were hidden in a lift. _Not anymore…_ They’re in the centre of a crowd where everyone can see the way that Freddie bites his lip, perhaps even make out the hiss of pleasure above the sound of synthesisers.

When he ground his hips against Freddie’s in the hotel room months ago, he was terrified that other people would notice. Here, he _wants them to._ But most people on the dance floor seem to be caught up in the blazing atmosphere and whatever is happening in their own little worlds.

Feeling a bit dizzy from the heat, Brian pulls Freddie back to the bar where it is less crowded. People are clinking their glasses, far enough from the speakers to enjoy a chat. No one pays them any mind as they order and drain their vodka tonics.

Brian can’t believe it, although it’s fairly simple; he should be able to wrap his head around it, but he can’t. For some reason, he can’t fathom that a place like this exists. A safe place.

“Wonderful, isn’t it, darling?” Freddie asks, smiling as he touches Brian’s hand. Then, he leans in. “I know you. You’re amazed, and you wanna see how far you can push it.”

Toying with his straw, Brian looks at Freddie. It’s a question, one that is answered by a sly nod. Silent communication has always been their thing. Without hesitation, Brian steps forward, pressing Freddie up against the bar counter as he kisses him; it’s eager and unapologetic, _hot._ When Freddie’s hands fall into his hair, Brian doesn’t stifle the moan. He lets it out, feels the weight of a thousand eyes land on them.

 _Yes,_ Brian sips the vodka lasting on Freddie’s tongue, _look at us._

 _Look at what we are together._ Famous and hungry, so greedy that it would send the press into a hissy fit, but no one in here will tell on them. Somehow, Brian just knows that.

By the time Brian pulls away, his mouth is bruised and they still have an audience. Freddie’s holding onto his arm, smirking. “I think there’s someone who wishes they were you, dear.”

Looking over his shoulder, Brian meets the eyes of a young man who can’t take his eyes off Freddie. Of course, this is nothing new. Ever since they started out, Freddie has understood how to enchant people with his flowing movements and mesmerising voice. But this is different because, even though they’ve put themselves on display, Brian isn’t willing to share him with _anyone._

Before he’s thought it through, he’s meeting the young man’s gaze, asking, “What are you staring at my boyfriend for?” It’s cutting, bordering a snarl, and it makes _everyone_ turn their eyes away.

Then the words seem to really land because Freddie turns delicate as a rose petal in Brian’s hands; tears of awe are glistening in his dark eyes. “You didn’t have to say that, Brian,” he whispers, his voice quivering.

In reassurance, Brian presses his lips to Freddie’s forehead, lets the kiss linger. “I know… Let’s go home.”

Home is the unwashed dishes and the squeaky floor and the three cats complaining, but it makes their hearts feel fuller than ever before. Brian scrubs the plates, lets Miko nibble at the edge of his sock. As if they hadn’t been self-indulgent enough for a night, Freddie puts on the tape for Teo Toriatte, and they dance to it in the kitchen:

_Let us cling together as the years go by_

_Oh my love, my love_

_In the quiet of the night_

_Let our candle always burn._

The rest of the weekend, they do cling together. In the quiet of the night, Brian notices how Freddie’s arm folds around him as if he’s afraid that he’ll soon slip away, but he won’t.

On Sunday morning, Brian is reading in bed when Freddie suddenly bursts into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. His dark eyes are wide, and he seems out of breath. “Darling, you better come.”

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I…” Quickly trailing off, Freddie waves his hands about as if that’ll convey his thoughts for him. “Just _come on._ ” Slipping out of the sheets, Brian tucks the book under his arm and follows Freddie into the living room. In the corner, Freddie stops to gesture at The Red Special with both hands.

Brian blinks just to make sure that he isn’t imagining the yellow note that’s stuck to the wood. He rips it off and reads out loud, “What am I doing here?” In his head, the words ring out in John’s peculiar accent because they’re in _his handwriting._

Shit.

He and Freddie barely left bed yesterday, so he hasn’t spared his guitar a glance. The surprise of this makes his book on the Milky Way fall to the floor, and Freddie goes to pick it up, also struck speechless until, “Uh, Brian?”

Brian looks at him, his mind still whirling. “Huh?”

Freddie clears his throat, then quotes from the back of the book, “ _Who would’ve thought there was an astrophysicist inside of you, Fred?_ ” Wrinkling his nose, he turns around to show the piece of paper taped over the synopsis, but Brian didn’t need to see it to be certain: Those words definitely came from Roger.

Alright. Enough of the bafflement. “I’m gonna _kill_ them,” Brian murmurs dryly.

Sitting down on the sofa, Freddie sighs and puts his head in his hands. “I’m afraid this is my fault, darling. I was planning on going out on Friday with or without you, so I asked Roger if he could check up on the cats for me. John must’ve gone with him. I completely forgot.” He looks up, the apology painted across his face. “I’ve gotten so used to your things being here, I didn’t think twice about it. I’m so sorry.“

“Don’t apologise,” Brian says gently, pressing a kiss to the top of Freddie’s head as he sits down. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s _not._ I outed you to them.”

Sighing, Brian cradles Freddie’s face. “I told you, I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’m only a tad ashamed that a whole club of strangers knew before our friends did. I don’t put much stock in the _coming out_ thing, as you saw the other night.” To Brian’s relief, Freddie grins at that. “Now, I wanna make them regret that sex joke.”

This is how an innocent invitation to ‘ _come_ _have coffee and biscuits, darlings’_ turns into a revenge plan. Poor Roger and John have no idea what’s in store for them.

When they come over an hour later, Brian’s in the kitchen, a smirk pulling on his lips as he waits for… “What the f—?”

“Something the matter, John?” Brian quips before making his appearance in the doorway. His bandmates immediately turn to look at him, revealing their _priceless_ expressions; they both look as if a pair of handcuffs hanging on the coat rack is the most obscene thing in the world. “Oh, those? Ah, they weren’t there on Friday. Don’t think I need to explain why,” he says casually.

Roger gawks at him for three full seconds, then shouts, “Hey, Fred, is it safe to come in the living room?”

“To come in the living room? Oh please, I do that all the time,” Freddie yells back, and Brian nearly cracks up when Roger grimaces.

“Yep, I already hate this,” Deaky mutters under his breath.

 _Perfect,_ Brian thinks as he scurries back into the kitchen to fetch the coffee pot. When he brings it into the living room, Freddie is sitting alone on the sofa, across from Roger and John whose eyes keep darting nervously around the room, worried about what they might find.

“Didn’t think you two were such prudes,” Freddie tells them once Brian has sat down and placed a hand on his thigh. “Hey babe, should we tell them about the time we fucked in Toledo? That’s a good—“

“ _No,”_ Roger spits out, then pauses. “Wait… _Toledo_? Is that when—,” he gestures wildly between them, “—started?”

Brian smiles. “Actually, it was in Ottawa,” making sure to time it so John chokes on his sip of coffee.

“What?! _Ottawa?_ That was six months ago!” are the first words that jump out of Roger’s mouth, but moments later his eyes widen comically as he remembers either the glow on Brian’s face or the awkwardness of Freddie’s gait; it doesn’t matter which, because he finally puts the two together, and all he has to say to it is, “… Blimey.”

After splitting a biscuit to share with Freddie, Brian shakes his head. “I’m afraid you guys don’t know the half of it.”

 _Not even a quarter._ They fucked every night after leaving Ottawa, but they’re not about to flaunt that. There are indeed limits to what they’re willing to share with their friends, which brings Brian to his next point, “Let this be a lesson for you. Don’t stick your noses in our sex life.”

“I made _one_ joke.”

Brian glares at Roger. “And if you do it again I _will_ put tape all over your precious little drum set, so don’t even try me.” Taking a breath, he places his coffee cup on the table, indicating that he wants to kill the joking atmosphere for a moment. “This might be amusing to you guys, which is fair enough, but we are…We’re serious about each other, alright? This can’t get out.”

Freddie takes his hand in comfort.

“Don’t you think we understand that?” is Roger’s question. “As soon as we realised, we sat down at John’sfor an hour to talk about how we’ll shield you from those tossers at the press.”

John smiles, equally resolute. “We won’t let them touch you. Promise.”

Brian senses his heart clench at the loyalty. Of course, he has always known he could count on them, but it means so much more right now, to know and see that he and Freddie will always have at least two people on their side.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos always brighten my day 💖


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